The Dogs in the Sky
by Tshimshain
Summary: E.G Harring is a writer - a woman who up until recently was a vigilante. However, reaching her mid-forties, she has countless scars, no friends - and a recent incident has left her trying to start over in the slums of the Big Apple. But, when the old life calls and she finds herself working in the shadow of the feared Rorschach - how will these two similar personalities clash?
1. Life in a Duffel Bag

**Life begins and ends by the sight of your eyes.**

Her life was contained in a duffel bag slung over her right shoulder. With every step the strap would pull and catch against old wounds, flexing pain up her spine along both bone and muscle. The sidewalk was stained - dirty and cracked, breaking endlessly under thousands of stalking feet, like hers, like others. On her eyes caught the alleyways, cast in umber even in the morning lights - caught the world move by. The city was filthy and worn, simple in its shades. Its hues were of black and of white and of little grey. Like a moth to flame it drew in her mind, drew it in tight and closed up the trap. The heartbeat of thousands echoed all around, ringing from the boarded up buildings and all the broken glass - and she was caught. Walking with the rhythm of the city under her heels, she discovered the beat and discovered her way. Surely, surely, she got the feel of the streets, of the races of rats underneath. She felt the smog coil lazily around her boots as she made her way. The sun had barely risen itself into the arms of the sky, chasing away the lingering shadows, and she watched - eyes clouded. She watched and waited and knew. There was something here worth seeing.

The bag hit the ground and she forced herself to sit down on the rusted bench, an island consumed by the sea of people starting to mill about. As the day dawned they seemed to appear from the brickwork, condense from the mist, hollow faced and dead eyed, smelling of night. The woman tilted her head at them, at their state, a state she had seen everywhere she had gone. Cities all had foundation, all had stakes in the night. That was when the monsters played games and spun their horrors. Her body still ached. Not from selling herself to others. Not from the lack of drugs in her system. Inside and out her form sang with its scars, where it had been beaten by these cities. Into submission? Yes - no. She could not yet say. The woman was tired, for once and her body had begun to show its wear. Not young anymore. She was making the transition into old. Her black hair had begun to show grey, to produce it in strands. The lines on her face had started to wear through the skin. Beaten and aged. It fit with the crowds around. It fit with the cityscape and with the feel all around. An old feeling of giving up. Yet she hadn't. Not yet. Maybe the city hadn't yet either.

A man stood on the corner with a sign hiked on his shoulder, proclaiming the end to the skies. The man held within him the pulse of the city, and she could not help but raise her head and look. Like so many others around him, he stood, but to her they parted around the street prophet like a sea, unseeing - blind to the man that looked like the rest. From this distance she could not see his face. The woman didn't have to. He was worn. His posture was rigid but tired. The clothes proclaimed the rest. The man was unremarkable. Yet it was he that signed her fate and crossed her life with the city. Inside of her something rose unwelcome to the surface, a strange kinship she suddenly felt with the world around her. Not him. Not her. To everyone in the city she felt strangely attached, as though they all danced like puppets on the same strings. Connected in a way that held not reason or sense, just sensation and a current that ran under the skin and through the blood.

She tore her dark eyes away from the scene and reached a gloved hand into her bag, producing her little bound book. Untying the string that held it shut, she traced her fingers over the cracking leather cover before turning it open to a reasonably blank page. Producing her pen from her coat pocket, she narrowed her focus in from the world and tried to keep things simple.

_E. G. Harring's Notes _

_I found it. I hadn't expected it to happen here - this city seems quite like the others. It smells of bodies and pollution, people working and dying, just like everywhere else. Boston, Chicago - they all seem to be the same. New York City - what does it hold? I suppose I shall find out eventually. Answers always have a way of working themselves to me. I doubt anyone will notice my arrival, or my departure. What is one drop to the bucket? One more milling about thousands?_

_I like this place better than the last already. After all, no one here knows my name. Well, not yet, anyway. I am sure that I should go ahead and find work at one of the newspapers. I am trying to remember the name of the one that the last was connected to. If they know my work, they are more likely to be interested in taking my writing. I am going to need the money if I am going to be staying here awhile. I have no idea how much my current funds are going to last. Will continue to keep notes updated in case I forget. Again._

_One to many concussions and all that jazz._

The woman tucked away her effects, fingering the strap of her bag that still lay sheltered at her feet. Plans wormed through her mind, landed and rearranged in alignment with time and for the moment she allowed herself to breathe. The mist coiled lazily in the air before shimmering into nothingness. Her dark eyes skimmed again off the buildings, off the people. The man proclaiming the end was nowhere in her sight, and she tilted her head, wondering. She wondered about nothing and everything before rising, returning her bag to its place, and headed off down the street with her hands in her pockets. The city thrummed on around her, sending it souls down upon her. She kept her head tilted to the skies, as though to embrace the clouded heavens, thinking. Always thinking. The woman would need to get somewhere to stay.

Unconsciously her fingers began to trace the scar on her lip, running over it as she looked for signs. Turning to walk down a different street she let her eyes run across the apartments, looking for places available to rent, weighing the cash in her jacket pocket. Her fingers picked at the skin of her lips, plucking it as she continued to search. There was no hurry, really, she had all day. Yet over her was a sense of expectation, like the world were holding its breath for something. The woman evaluated this feeling - this apprehension. Did it come from being in such an unfamiliar place? A place familiar in some senses yet alien in its layout, it streets. She had yet to know the rules and had already stumbled into the engagement. If she had been smart, she would have not left the last city in such a hurry, would have traveled here and let her eyes behold only at first. Instead she had dove right in without comprehending the depth.

_Stupid mistake_ - she reflected. She hoped it would be the only one of the day.

There was a sign in the window of one of the buildings that caught her attention and snagged her mind. The smallest of smiles came to her lips and she crossed the threshold of the concrete steps and up to the barrier of the wooden door. Involuntarily, her mind checked the lock, noting its make and the wear around the edges. Someone had attempted to force it before and had obviously failed. She took hold of the doorknob and entered the building, stepping quietly into the foyer. The place smelled of cigarettes and nighttime activities, an unspoken code that all apartment buildings seemed to uphold no matter where she went. Tucking her hair away from her eyes and brushing the dust from her clothes, she moved down the hallway, eyes to the doors and stairs, until she found the Landlord's office. Her knuckles rapped sharply on the door.

"Whataya want?" A voice barked from behind, loud and grating to her ears.  
"The sign said there was vacancy. Got a room for rent?"  
"Yeah - Yeah. Hold on."

Her ears perked, listening as the other woman made her way across the unseen room, making quite a bit of noise behind the closed door. It was clear that her new landlord was not a master of stealth, and for some reason that calmed her. She did not like being taken by surprise. In her previous line of work surprise was considerably dangerous - deadly, even. When the door opened she was not surprised to see a woman older than she, wearing fitting clothes that seemed only a tad more conservative than what she had seen on the streetwalkers outside. For a moment the woman looked her over, taking her in as though she were going to deny any income that she could get. E let the corner of her mouth tilt upward into a non-threatening smile.

"Got the money?" The larger woman looked her up and down, scowling.

"How much?"

"Three hundred now for the deposit. One hundred every first of the month."

E tilted her head.

"Got mouths to feed." The woman continued, a brow arching. Of course she did.

_Don't we all._ "Hold a moment."

Her fingers fished the wallet from the inside of her pocket, feeling the woman's eyes as they sought to skin and steal. Tucked inside the leather were lines of crisp new bills - the money from her last paycheck she had collected. At least she would not have to pay rent at the old place. Sad, really. She had liked it there more than she ever would here. Hopefully there would be other things here that would overshadow this place. The woman did not want to spend her day shopping around - a place was a place, just as a bed was a bed. Without much more consideration, she unfolded the amount and placed it into the expecting hand of the woman before her, watching the light catch the talons of her nails, curling like the claw of a dragon, waiting to capture and take. E watched as the woman recounted the money carefully, slowly, each numeral passing across her eyes, fueled by the innate greed that she could see in all people. It was natural. Money was the driving force - the thing that made the world turn.

"Come with me." Still the landlord looked at her with cruel eyes, the eyes that everyone looked at her with nowadays. The line of her mouth was soft and speculating, judging, waiting for the harshness that always came - eventually. E felt a pang of guilt. She followed the large woman as she tracked up the complaining stairs. The building seemed to be sighing under its own great weight. "My name is Dolores Shairp - Ms. Shairp. As I said, rent is due the first of every month. Don't make too much noise and keep things clean and we won't have a problem. I can kick you out anytime I want - remember that."

The words were mute as they fell on the younger woman's ears, her eyes tracing the worn walls of the place, taking in the details that presented themselves. A sense of familiarity settled against her - that feeling that she had done this all before. So many places she had been started off as this, wore themselves thin even before she breathed a word. The people were ghosts and shadows wearing different skins, yet the same to the bone. Dolores was one of these ghosts, and E resisted the urge to look through her, to look through the wraith that was just another echo of the live that she led. Instead she sighed and continued to follow.

"Here's your room." Ms. Shairp gestured at the door at the end of the hall, giving the other woman another glance that held a lingering bitterness. "Don't bother anyone." The key exchanged hands and the shapely woman began her descent again. The other was left to wonder why she had even bothered to make the ascent in the first place.

A sigh escaped managed to part her lips as she turned toward the door and fit the weathered key into the rusting lock. As with the rest of her surroundings it seemed as though it were ready at any moment to settle into dust, even as she twisted and bore her full weight against its tight hold. Sighing, she straightened herself and examined her situation again, testing the knob and the strength of the door. Placing a booted foot under the crack at the bottom, she lifted and turned the key, finally popping the door open and propelling it back into the room with a satisfying pop. Taking a deep breath, the woman righted the bag on her shoulder and stepped through to inspect the damage that would serve as her new home.

The air was a thin layer of grime, of accumulated dust that had gone too long settled. Furniture slouched around the room, broken beasts hidden under thin white sheets - like bodies waiting in a morgue. Despite the summer air breathing outside the brickwork, there was a chill to the air, a dampness that crept past her layers of clothes. She released her held breath, breathing in the scent of coffee grounds and dankness. Her hands reached out and took the key from its place, shutting the door behind her. The damage had indeed been done, and the situation would have to be handled as is. For the second time in the day the woman found herself cursing her own name, long after she eased her burdensome parcel off of her shoulders and let it sink to the floor in a billow of dust. Standing there, she felt young and foolish. The sensation brightened in her stomach and smarted across her face, tugging up her lips despite herself.

"Things will work out," she promised to herself, softly. "They usually do."

The woman did not allow herself to think of the last time that things had not worked out.

Again she allowed her eyes then to settle on the space that opened before her, the rooms that now were in her charge. Immediately she thought to move to the far window, passing through the empty door frame into the bedroom, wondering for a moment where the door had gone as she wrapped her fingers around the bottom of the window and lifted the pane. The summer air greeted both her and the untouched air with sparks and a hot tongue, lapping into the indoors as the woman took another harsh look at her surroundings. Whomever had last stayed in the place had left their furniture behind - she doubted that her landlord had thought for her charges enough to provide them with these comforts. She ran her long fingers along the bedside table absently, feeling the dust that coated all in sight. How long had the place stayed vacant? Below her feet she could hear the cries of the children reaching up to meet her. Not long if the mother had been able to provide for them. E shrugged out of her heavy overcoat and let it fall into the rocking chair opposite the bed.

The bed itself was small and well worn, the mattress hosting its characteristic stains. The table beside the bed was wooden, as was the ancient rocking chair. Along the wall was a tall and broad bookshelves, vacant save for a dated edition of a Bible that the woman doubted anyone nowadays had read. She passed back through the gaping maw of the bedroom door, touching the frame where a door had once hung. With sure hands the tenant began uncovering the crouched collection of furnishings, each sheet sending billows of grunge into the air. With each cough her ribs extended and pulsed with new pain, and eventually the woman was forced to take a seat on the aging couch, hands attempting to hold herself together as she hacked. The pain served as a reminder that she had not yet healed from her last excursion and was not yet well enough to tempt the venture again. Her fingers dug into her side, feeling the bones where they still lay mending, knowing the bruising that raked across her ribcage. Over the days they had faded from purple to yellow, but they remained - on the surface and below. She wondered how many pocketmarks her body could yet take.

Raising her hand to cover her eyes from the prevailing light, the thought of sleep came and went quietly weighed, but not tempting her from the waking world. The day was yet young and though she had not slept the previous night for her traveling, there would be many lonely hours later after the daylight faded - when the ache for activity would be sharp and ever present. For now she needed to see to her surroundings, count the remainder of her funds, finds places for what little possession she owned, and perhaps go out onto the streets to find a suitable company under which she could work. Already the prospect of this work settled like a wet cloth over her skin, pressing inward. Rising immediately, she shook herself of her laziness and ran a hand through her thick black hair, hanging in thick curls around her shoulders. Injuries and lack of sleep aside, there was nothing inhibiting her from making this as productive a day as any. Gathering the dusty sheets in her arms, she made way to the fire escape where she let them air under the watch of the sun. They still could be of use, after all.

* * *

Shadows ran their fingers along the sidewalks and up the fronts of the buildings as though vines, threatening to drag the unsuspecting between the cracks and into the world that lay unseen. Hands promptly placed in her pockets and her head tilted purposefully down, the woman lulled the night into a false sense of security that would allow her to make it home alive. Even under the cover of the streetlights it could not be considered safe for a woman to be out alone, no matter how much she sought naught to make herself a target. The air snapped like sparks from an invisible wire, pulled taunt in preparation for the first victim of the night to fall into the bluntly-placed trap. On she passed by the alleyways promising by the memories they carried, twisting from the shadows and trying desperately to stay in the lights and out of the reaching hands. They were there, pressing from the shade, waiting for their chance to reach and grab, to steal her from the life that she still led. E held her head tilted to the ground and moved slow as though she had no place to be. Experience, she whispered back to the armed city. The advantage was not lost on fate.

Many times had the woman escaped being preyed upon by simply pretending that she was not, in fact, prey. This did not mean that she held her head with the air of a predator or stalked the shadows like they. Nay. Instead the woman shambled in her rags and clothing mismatched and worn, moved with the air that there was nowhere to be and none to wait on her bones, that she had no stake in this world at all. The bag in her hand could contain anything - booze or liquor most likely. Those who watched wanted little to do with a beggar woman who had already had too much to drink. Her hood concealed the remaining glimmers of her youth and many still were too distracted by the fresh meat parading on display - the woman who sold and could likewise be stolen - rather than pay attention to the hunched form slouching past. Yes, E had played their games and knew what to expect, though it made something sick twist in her stomach that she had to play along to start. Before here she would dress in her best and remove these vermin one by one, wipe their smiles and their grins - take away the sharpness of their knifes. That was before and this was in the now. Her wounds still pulled fresh at the thought.

No incident then occurred and she reached the looming shadow of her apartment complex with the flesh still fixed to bone. Not a moment after she had passed through the doors did the facade then drop, becoming herself once again, transforming from beggar to woman. Shaking the anchors of night from her shoulders she moved up the stairs, conscious of the voices rising from behind the door of her landlady. Voices that mixed and crescendoed in the cries of children that shattered when their mother spoke. E flinched back from the sound, the harsh words falling muffled on her own ears as she snaked up the stairs and away from thin walls. The upper levels were silent, the doors hooded and quiet - closed as she passed. A glance was spared for each in turn, the feeling of misery thick with its occupants. The floor that was her own was sparsely lit, the other door on the landing silent as it had ever been - noiseless as she gave it a look before moving past. She passed through the final threshold and breathed a breath of ease in knowing that she had made it to her new home.

Collected in her arms where the shambles of her previous life, the only keystones that never failed to transfer from one rising to the next - her writings. Finding a place interested was not the issue - she had found it easily enough. The only barrier thereof was the concept of the privacy and care in which all of her professional matters had to then be held. The writer E.G Harring was a person of great privacy, all knew. Yet the extent of this privacy could only be tangibly held with those she considered her employers. Never could it pass their lips of where she stayed or the secret that she held close to her heart - right on her skin. The thought never occurred to them until their eyes beheld that the writer that they had in their graces for so long was not...male. It was a matter of utmost professionalism that all had to withhold, should they want a word or breath of her writing. A female who wrote on the topics that she did would not be taken as seriously or words be held with as much weight. Sexism had yet to disappear, and still weighed on her like some great unspeakable blemish - made her sigh under its weight. People discredited her for being...female. Therefore, her gender was moved out of the spotlight, out of the point. Those who employed her referred to her only in name - E.G Harring. Those who read assumed what they may. Never did a word pass a single pair of lips. This was the agreement that was reached that afternoon - the agreement that had kept her from coming back to the apartment at a decent hour.

Setting the documents down on the low-slung coffee table, she tried to push them momentarily from her mind as she passed through the living room and through the door that led to the narrow kitchen. Rarely did she feel the need to drink coffee at this hour, but she knew that the first responses would need to be given to the journalists early the coming morning, meaning her work hours would swell to envelop half the night. Though she had washed the ancient coffee maker earlier that day, she still eyed it skeptically as she poured in the water and spooned out some grounds. Taking a seat on the counter, she waited to see if the thing would actually produce anything she could drink. The woman was glad that she had taken the coffee and the tea from her old place, as well as the few items she could be said to live upon. E did not eat much, truth be told, only what was necessary - a feeling she shared with sleep as well. She found that she wrote better on an empty stomach, anyway, for then she was not tempted with the sleep that her body seemed to so convinced it was deprived of.

From her place on the counter she viewed the small kitchen and allowed herself another small smile. The entire place was on the bridge of shambles, but there was a history here that she liked. Whoever had previously occupied the place had probably been elderly, she could smell the faintness of soap and moth balls - the characteristic scent of the aged. E hoped that whomever's place she had now taken was not buried six feet under or in an asylum. Perhaps a family had come to rescue them from the harsh realities of the slums. The woman doubted it, but she hoped. The conclusion was harmless, after all, because she could never know for certain. The dark of her eyes tracked the spitting pot, hissing at the fuss of making her a drink though it seemed to be doing so. She let out a breath of relief that she had not realized she had been holding. Coffee would make the night more bearable. E just hoped that she had enough sugar with her to make it drinkable.

After fixing herself a steaming cup of awakeness, she tracked back into the living room and picked up one of her journals from the coffee table. The woman had so many volumes of the same book, all worn and weathered, all made of the same supple cracked leather. The ones that now helped line her bookshelf in the room where personal, yet the few that fanned out across the wood of the table where professional. The one from her previous vocation was thick and stuffed fat with notes, envelopes, a ledger of what she had been paid for her works, bursting at the seams with her penmanship. The other was slimmer, not yet broken, and the only words that it boasted as of yet where her initials and the name of the company she had visited today. E was organized in her endeavors, all of them, and did not want the first step into her new employment to be on the wrong foot. Cradling her cup close, she breathed in the bitter bite and took a small sip before reaching out to pick up the opened envelope that contained her first written assignment. She knew it would be the hardest thing that she ever wrote for her work, as she needed to grab the attention of the readers to the point where they would be interested in continuing to hear what she had to say.

An introduction to her would already be contained within the paper - a few scant words about E.G Harring that would serve to curb most of the more curious eyes. Yet the woman behind the writer knew that this introduction would only be a title - the rest would have to be summed from her own pen. Her fingers scanned across the notes that were contained within her hands, the contract and details pushed aside. Instead she looked at the last of the collection, the topic that would begin her daytime career in New York City - vigilantism. Low and behold, the woman had to laugh at it, as she had expected something else. Yes she was not ignorant of the cities late night hosts and their activities, though she had only heard bits and snatches from when the topic had played upon other assignments. The topic rose within her many feelings, feelings that would be hard to restrain from leaking onto the paper. The hardest part, in reality, of this topic, would be constraining it to the knowledge of the writer and not the woman. Though personal experience burned in her mind with the hotness of a brand she could not give a word about her own late night excursions, the feel of bones breaking and lives tearing themselves apart. Not a breath could be spoken about the times she had fallen off of rooftops, thrown others into brick walls or painted the sidewalk with the lifeblood in their veins. The woman laughed with bitterness and with joy, her mending ribs making her breath hiss. From the table her pen and her ledger were retrieved and she began writing her own response.

**Excerpt from Vigilantism in New York City - Masked and Unmasked Alike.**

_Crime hosts a wide array of masks and faces, hiding amongst the just as well as those who share the same skin as they. The shadow of a criminal appears in daylight just the same as a civilian, though at nighttime the former seems a touch more sinister. At night the vermin of the underworld swarm into the streets and the police force as trail enough keeping them contained to the lower-income regions of the city. An armored man with a gun on his hip hardly steps foot into these places and one must ask if he understands the struggle that goes on._

_When a badge cannot be seen, who then should try and burn out the rats? Whenever the police are missing from the streets and their dogs are laying slumbering in stations, what keeps the vermin from climbing the walls and slaughtering those sleeping in their beds? Well, there are those who take the law into their own hands, the ones who hold the reins tightly on the snapping jaws of the underworld and keep them from biting too many hands. Some round up the rats and deposit them on the doorsteps of justice with hopes that their sentence with suit the crimes and others simply dispose of them in the back-alleys would dare take their chances or step foot. Everyone in the city raises their voices and declares this as wrong, but without these protectors, these few, what would the streets be like? Those who sit pampered in their upscale abodes need not worry their heads - mostly. When a criminal creeps through your window and seeks to take all that you have, would you rather be rescued by someone unseen in a mask - or not rescued at all? Blood cannot be weighed like dollars, but the value of life can be seen when one thinks about their own._

_The idea of taking justice into ones own hands is far from a foreign concept, even before the stages of today and the acts that keep most hooded heros from the pages. Heros - I say, even if they kill. Most act as though police do not kill. There may be differences between an officer of the force and a vigilante dealing out justice with the brunt of their fists - but the goal should be the same. Vigilantes are not the villains hosted in Saturday morning cartoons, they are striving to make this city a better place to live - and who says that they are not?_

_My ears care not about controversy or stories that are a decade old, my eyes make no difference between on wearing a badge and one without. If more people cared, if more people tried to help those who are too weak to help themselves and stepped forward without cowering in the fear of their own lives, the city would become a better place. Why should only the police officers and the politicians be the ones to say who can and cannot give justice? Justice is justice, just as freedom is freedom. If freedom has its place in America's hearts, why cannot justice as well? Think little on the hands of justice and more on the future that is being paved._

_-E. G Harring_

The finished article lay in her hands, bare and prepared for whatever the editors of the newspaper wished to do with it the coming morning. With a glance to her watch she rose, stiffly, stretching the soreness from her arms and massaging her writing hand to free it from cramps. Without much thought her feet carried her to the bedroom, thinking with singularity toward the sleep that she had continued to push aside in thought of other activities. The woman made sure that the window was closed and locked, have retrieved the sheets from the fire escape earlier. They now lay spread over the grimy mattress in an attempt to make it somewhat suitable to her needs. Even through the clouded eyes of her drowsiness the woman gave a sharp look to what lay beyond the glass panes, the city that twisted around her like a grotesquery summoned from unreal nightmares. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, the screams of whatever corrupt system the streets had laid on this night. The darkness swelled behind her eyes as she lay her head down, but still her eyes were fixated on the window and what lay beyond.

Locked away in this cage of a room she wondered if anyone would come to rattle it. Dry anticipation coiled through the chambers of her stomach and she tried to swallow the hollow feel that came to her bones, the calling the resounded through her muscles. If they were to come through the window she could easily force them out onto the fire escape, through them down the side of the building and watch as they exploded across the welcoming cement. If through the door came, bursting the wood and lock right open then she would be on her feet in an instant, clear the room in another, leap into their surprised embrace and feel the bones of her hand crack against their cheeks - their face splitting open under her touch. Her hand fingered the scars along the tops of her hands, the hard calluses on her palms, the little nicks were knives had been caught in her flesh. She marveled at the bending of her crooked fingers were they had been broken and irresponsibly set. The smile that came to her face was one of expectation, the impatience that came with her wounds still healing. E could not will herself into the retirement that she had so previously thought this city held for her. A quiet life was not a life when the city screamed around her - needing help that none would heed. Its screams were her own and each gasping breath was a plea that she could not leave unanswered. The woman left her scarred hands fall onto her chest as she continued to watch the darkness play behind the window - her portal into the world that she could not yet join.

_Soon_ - she promised, letting her eyes finally close. I will not be kept here forever.

The shaking intake of her breath soon calmed, her mind lashing out at the nightmares that lingered behind her closed lids. Fight, her brain told her, as she wrestled with the night. Inside of these dreams the world tasted of blood and of leather, the feel of the costume against her skin. Below her the city lay at her feet, whispering its last words into her mind.

_Save us_ - the city cried, blood flowing from its tongue.

_Yes -_ she replied, feeling the bodies crumple under her. _I will._

Endlessly the night stretched on and the woman fought hard in her dreams.

* * *

**Author's Note || Naturally, as much as one may wish, I do not own Watchmen or the concepts or characters thereof. I do, however, take credit for E and the words contained in this story. I thank you for the patience in reading and hope you have found something to enjoy. **

**Until next time, stay sane.**


	2. Water Under the Bridge

**Nightmares are no more than reminders for the living.**

****The woman had awaken to the dirty light filtering from the only window in the apartment, the noise of the city working its way through the thin layer of glass. The sheets had tangled around her in the night and she had kicked herself free and rubbed the headache from her temples. As she glared at the morning light she was prompted to rise and make the needed preparations before making the trek down to the newspaper's main office to delivery her response to the article. The morning had taken a step and stumbled, the hot water had refused to work in the shower and she had naught the time to down the needed amount of coffee to make her mood tolerable. Nevertheless, the woman managed to make it down the creaking stairs and emerged blinking into the daylight as it began to rid itself of the anchors of the nightlife. With her hands curled in her pockets and the journal tucked safely out of sight she moved through the thin crowds of commuting workers and watched each of her booted steps as they carried her down the street on which she now lived.

The sunlight seemed to be compensating for the darkness of the previous night, but even then E's eyes could catch the places in the alleyways were the beams could not penetrate - places she was sure still bore the marks of the evening. Never had the surroundings seemed so haunted then when they made the transition from dusk to dawn, balancing on the threads that connected each world to one another. Her eyes caught her fellow citizens, all wearing their daily masks and moving from place to place. During the day the criminals did not rest - she knew this - but it was harder to pick them in the crowd. Passing her, a man walked with a blackened eye and limp which he tried to hide. Across the street a woman held her screaming child close, and even out of the scant clothes that she had worn in the long hours of nighttime E recalled her face. The people of New York seemed to be living double lives, and it made her tense and uneasy in her skin. Closer she pulled her jacket, trying to lose the critical eye that she could not help but gaze around with. Such an eye had saved her on more than one occasion, the power of observation so much greater than most could give credit for.

A man walked with a sign pointed toward the heavens in accusation, proclaiming the end that so many held their breath for. E recognized him from the day before, the man that she had observed from across the street with an eye less keen than now. They neared each other, pacing toward, and once more she allowed herself to have a brief look yet again, as though he were something more than unremarkable. The worn state of his clothes mirrored hers, the blank expression familiar yet startling, the hard mouth of his line conveying nothing if not grim realism. The way he walked was rigid and practiced, as though it had been rehearsed in secret for many years. As they crossed paths the woman caught the sharpness of his eyes, the stark intelligence that hid behind his colored irises, behind the blankness - and she quirked her lip at him, at his sign - at message and meaning as they went about their different directions. In that moment E then decided that she liked the street prophet and whatever he stood for. Silently she wished him and his sign an easy day as she continued toward her office. She did not know the confusion she had caused the man as she walked by - and perhaps she never would.

Reaching the building she entered the front, mind still reeling and collectively halting as it took in the details that she had missed. Without word she was greeted and waved through to the main office, workers milling about and scattering as she moved through their ranks like a shadow, not listening to the conversations she caught in snips and trying to remove herself from their daily lives. She entered the publisher's office and closed the door to the outside, forgetting to knock as usual. The man inside raised his head and held out a hand, fingers beckoning for the parcel she had come to deliver. Grunting as she handed him the envelope, he gestured for her to take a seat, which she did, hoping that this would be one of the only actual meetings she would have with the man. Conversation was not her forte, after all, and her social ineptitude was bound to show through the moment she opened her mouth. Her dark eyes observed as he fanned the papers through his hands and read - quickly and efficiently, what she had written for him, face shifting and eyes sorting as she read him as well - sorting the reactions as she followed each line in her own mind.

"Good," he gifted, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap, the papers now laying forgotten before him. "It'll give the damn politicians something to think about."

"Politicians are able to think?" she quipped, hoping for a smile to ease the tension. The man raised his head and leveled her with his eyes.

"If it concerns their wallets," he grunted. "Hopefully our two cents here will draw their attention. Your name will do the trick, I'm sure. Even if they don't know..." he trailed off as she sharpened her eyes on him, wondering about him as she tilted her head. The woman did not like what he was insinuating.

"Do you have the article for tomorrow? I would like to go ahead and start, if I can."

"Yeah, hold on." The man rose, walking to the door and opening it. "Eddie? Got the prompt for tomorrow's column?"

The woman sat, her fingers threading through her scarf, waiting.

"Here." The publisher dropped the envelope in her lap. "Pay's in there, too."

"Thank you." Seeing no further use of her presence, she rose from her chair and faced him, trying to keep her indifference from her face. "Anything else you need of me?" His eyes scanned the length of her body, and the woman restrained herself from giving a growl.

"You free later for a drink?"

"I am not."

There was no time to gauge a reaction as her fists curled and she was forced to stuff them into her pockets, retreating out of his office with the envelope tucked properly in her jacket pocket. No one spared the woman a glance as she fled the building with storm clouds brewing in her mind. The man had not meant anything by the offer, she was sure, but she did not understand why they could not simply maintain a professional acquaintanceship. E had caught the glimmer of the gold band on the man's hand, the marriage that paled like all others when something new offered itself. Had she been a man perhaps it would have been different, just a drink with the bossman. However, as all seemed keen to reminder her, she was a female, and therefore the offer of drinks usually meant something more. Even if it hadn't, in this case, the scan of her body had been lewd enough. The promise of alcohol did not sound sweet from his lips, it sounded like a situation the woman wanted nothing to do with. She had her experience with liquor, as many do, and knew it to bring out the worst in everyone. Even when she had downed a bottle or two to curb the pain from new injuries the world seemed to tilt off of its axis and her thoughts were left unrestrained. Dangerous. The offer had been dangerous, whether the man had meant it as such or not. Hopefully the feelings she was now caught under had not shown through to her face.

The sky had lightened to its normal hue and E tried to bring her temperament back under wraps. Such a thing was hard to do, as it had been for the better part of her life. Emotion needed to bubble close to the surface and was a potent mixture, especially the anger when it seeped from her heart through to her bones. The woman shook the tangled mess of her hair, lightly fingering the envelope in her pocket and attempting to take her mind off of the entire ordeal. Never had her mind strained so tight against its leash, and she knew soon she would have to find something other than sitting in her flat to occupy the copious amount of free time she now found on her hands - perhaps a hobby or something of the like. E.G could always write another book, a little tribute about politics or the past or a dabble into some fiction. At the thought she shook her head, doubtful that more words were help with the tangle in her stomach. As though in reply, her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten for a long while. Sighing in frustration, the woman scanned her surroundings and the street signs, finding that she was at the corner of Fortieth and Seventh, the Gunga Diner before her. Shaking her head at circumstance, she ducked inside.

Working over the lines of thought that lingered in her head, the woman worked on autopilot and followed a disinterested waitress to a vacant table, ordering some coffee in hopes of returning the morning to some sort of rights. Her fingers traced the silverware, toying with the edges of the menu as she attempted to decide some sort of food choice. In the end, she selected the food of the day and stared leisurely out of the window, the glass clean despite the outside world hosting a layer of grime. When the waitress returned with her coffee, E found herself staring into the hot liquid, watching the steam swell into the air, bored with her surroundings and the lack of activity in the day. Around her conversations were hosted, noises coupled with actions, and the woman found herself alone yet again even though she was surrounded by people. E ran her hand along the rim of the porcelain mug and blew across the surface of the still coffee, playing with the steam that rose with her breath. The action reminded her of when she was a child still, blowing the heads off of dandelions - making wishes for the future that seemed so far away. So many years later that girl sat in a diner in New York, the future settled in close on her chest, the past a haze of memories. So many times the woman had risked the life that she led, countless choices that sometimes ended in tragedy and always bore consequence. Here she was, alone again - trapped in another city that she did not understand. A rat in a new cage, the bars still not found. E stared into her cup, forgetting the booth and the small table, the smell of cooking food and the music playing above.

"Are you ready to order?" The waitress asked, breaking her out of her dismal riverie.

"I would like the lunch special," E replied, blinking the fog from her eyes.

"Would you like anything else with that?" The tip of her pen was posed above the notepad, expectant. The woman could not help but notice the slight shaking of the other's hand.

"No, thank you." Their eyes made contact, and the server looked away quickly, embarrassed. The action made E tilt her head. Had she done something?

"I'll be right out with that." The woman beat a hasty retreat, scurrying across the linoleum flooring to disappear in the back.

E was left to replay the conversation in her head, confused. Other people had the habit of mystifying her. Never was she able to fully figure out their responses or reactions. As soon as she seemed well able to assign meaning to simple communication, another variable was added and threw her effectively for a loop. The words had been measured, practiced. The tone had been even, indifferent, the same subtle voice that others used when ordering. Her expression had remained neutral but not blank, composed. She ran her fingers along the rim of her cup again, taking a few sugar cubes from a bowl and adding them to the black. Self-consciously she ran a hand over her curling black hair, smoothing down the worn black pea coat she wore. Her hands loosened the black and white scarf around her neck, picking then at the fingerless gloves she had pulled on that day. Even her attire was worn and unnoteworthy. What had she done wrong? Taking a sip of the coffee, she pulled a face at the bitterness and added a few more cubes. Sighing, she tried to push the experience from her mind, but the look of discomfort on the waitresses face came back to her nonetheless.

"Here you are." A different server set the steaming soup down in front of her, flashing her a wavering smile that did not reach to her eyes. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you," E replied, letting a small smile tug up her lips, trying to let the woman know that she was not going to bite. After all, she was not a rabid dog - she was just another customer. The waitress fumbled, tried to return the gesture - failed - and then tottered to the back of the restaurant, scandal on her tongue.

Around her the other customers continued their meals, oblivious to the private blimp in their otherwise perfect mornings.

The appetite that had first pressed her through the diner's doors had not faded with her sit, and the woman looked down into the bowl of soup before her. Cradling a spoon in her hand, she tucked into the warm food with controlled enthusiasm. It had been some time since her last enjoyable meal, undoubtedly too long. However, contentment carried its own consequences, and she tried to remind herself of this during the meal. Hunger sharpened her against the world, made her see things she would otherwise miss. To most it would be a ridiculous notion, but to her it was fact. All throughout her years the woman had eaten just enough to prevent malnutrition, to keep her body in a state that she could perform in. Yet, she detested excess, and would not allow herself to overdo the simple splendors that populated her existence. Food was such an excess, as was sleep - and the companionship that she had not had for many years. These excesses would only made her senses dull, make her blind to the details that in her line of work were crucial. That edge was what she needed, what she could work with. Against the abundance of rodents that she battled, she had to take every possible advantage that she could grasp - even if it meant semi-starvation. Hunger sharpened the wit, after all.

Concluding her minimal meal, the woman counted out the bills needed to pay from her pocket and rose, shrugging off the feeling of watchful eyes that followed as she tracked across the floor to the door and reemerged into the New York sunlight, the morning left behind. Crossing the street to the opposite sidewalk, the woman headed for home, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising as she tracked. With each step unease ballooned inside of her gut, rising higher - higher - threatening to burst from her throat. Was someone as so daft to follow her in broad daylight? Perhaps she had misjudged the city and the criminals crawled during the day as well as its partner. Her eyes stayed resolutely forward, but her intuition continued to shiver, skin quivering with the anticipation of the former days. The attention of her mind narrowed its focus, and as tempting as it was to duck into one of the alleys along the street and confront whomever was following, she decided against it, continuing her journey as though ignorant. Step by step she could feel her adrenaline starting to kick, her vision sharpen with its touch, spreading across her chest to quicken the beat of her heart.

_Middle of the day_ - she reminded herself - _can't do anything heroically stupid._

The toxicity of the unseen follower poisoned the edges of her mind, the body that contained it screaming for the action that it knew it could perform. The pain from her old injuries dulled as invitation, and E felt the eyes that sought to burn holes into her clothes, felt them judge her too as they followed. Unknowingly they had triggered something far more dangerous than they could comprehend, pulled the subtle strings that would spring a lethal trap. With a new resolve cemented in the chambers of her gut, her eyes scanned for those who would pry - though they would undoubtedly stand passively by without the thought of intervening crossing their thoughts - before ducking smoothly into a shaded back-street. The brickwork rose stably on either side of her form, and she moved down the length, testing the fingers of her hand. Stretching them, she clenched them into momentary fists before stepping into the low patch of light that made up the square center of the building block. By all appearances, the woman was trapped and at the supposed mercy of whomever shadowed her. Appearances were deceiving.

Feigning interest in the contents of her pockets, the woman waited for a breath, chasing the pounding of her blood, pretending that she was naive as the day is long. A dark figure loomed at the entrance to the streets, passing through, the sun backlighting their silhouette. E looked up as though in surprise, the large-eyed expression that had been practiced to perfection in her youth. The man stepped forward, lumbering in an overcoat, and soon became visible to her in the lack of proper light, her eyes making the adjustment quickly. In these precious moments that settled as the calm before the storm, the woman noted several things. First, the man had a knife curled in his fingers, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the jacket that was much too large on his frame. The dark of his eyes were large and set deep into the sockets, rimmed with dark circles that suggested a lack of sleep. When he moved he cradled the left side, showing he was then dominant in his right- which he then led with. The expression he wore was one of blessed familiarity to her, the look of one who feels as though they have cornered a suitable prey. Despite feeling as though she had good grasp on the situation, she waited for him to make the first move in case she was wrong - which she had not been in a good long while.

"Hey pretty thing. You look lost," he said, showing the crooked edges of a grin that spread jaggedly across his face. E watched as his grip on the knife in his pocket tightened, stroking a thumb over the blade out of sight.

_Do I?_ - she thought, continuing to regard him with practiced confusion.

The man took a halting step and drew his once-hidden hands from their security inside of his pockets. The thin blade in his grasp gleamed invitingly as it caught the watch of her eyes, promising nothing but making too many claims for her to count. The brute's hold was tight on the handle, his nails undoubtedly digging back into his palms as he clenched - tighter. On cue the woman took a step back, working on the whims that came from experience. One could say that this was an unfair situation to the criminal before her, being lured as he was into a game that he had not known that he would be playing. E was baiting him, this was true. Yet, the woman was giving him a chance to prove his motives, to show her his intentions before enticing her into action. This was a test - only a test. A trail to which she stood as the judge and him the accused. Right now this served as a testimony to sway the judgment that would be passed. The verdict lay somewhere unsolved in the back of her mind- yet her body already knew. Each muscle tensed to spring, changing as the challenge reached the sparks of the man's eyes.

"Why don't you be a good girl and step over to the wall, hmm? Nice and quiet, now."

Transfixed she watched the motion of his hand as he waved the knife in front of her, giving her a clear view of its cutting edge, an edge slightly dulled by situations such as these. Did the man prefer the frailty that was found in the women of the region? Did he make a habit of preying on the walkers of the midmorning to avoid the hardened criminals that stalked the night? Tilting her head slightly, she looked him up and down, the ruffled exterior. Like the others, she could no longer see his face. It blurred when she tried to make out features, transformed into something unrecognizable and only vaguely humanoid. Only a pair of dark eyes stared out at her, asking for what the man fully intended to then get. The scan took but a second, but the tension cracked in the air when the other began to understand that E had no intention of following his orders. Anger came unrestrained to his face, turning the hue of the skin from pale to red as the blood boiled just under the surface. The woman took a breath inward, feeling the beat of his heart just under the skin. Fingers coiled into fists.

"You deaf? I said - get over to the wall!" His words dropped off into the space.

In less time than it took for the man to take a hasty blink, the facade she had been flaunting dropped as quickly as it had been adopted and the vigilante emerged, clearing the space that lay between in a single, measured step. As the last words trickled into an intake of confusion, the man reacted to her movement, swinging the knife in a cutting arch that was easily dodged. The woman caught the hand that held the knife and gave a brutal twist, feeling the crack of bone under the steady pressure of her digits. The weapon dropped forgotten to the ground as the man in front of her gave a low choke of pain, muffled by the collision of her fist to his jaw. Staggering back, the man seemed to regain some sense of the situation and swung his good hand in an attempt to catch her own face - failing as it brushed harmlessly across her shoulder.

She brought her legs sweeping under his, knocking the feet out from under him as he overcome by the bursts of pain from his broken wrist. There was only a grunt as the air was forced from his lungs when he hit heavily the cement. Looming over him, she stared down, placing a booted foot on the soft skin of his stomach, pressing - insistent. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, coupling with the sweat that streaked down the terrified face, a sight that reminded her of so many others that tasted of this song and dance. The man looked up at her with the eyes of swine, the beady slits brimming with tears. Each breath came in the form of a stifled gasp, and she wondered if she had fractured his ribs. The fight had been short, and it was clear to her that this was not a man of experience. Deeper she dug her booted foot, watching his expression shift in pain as she attempted to decide what to do with him.

_Attacked you in broad daylight. A petty criminal or not, he is still a criminal. The knife he uses shows wear from use on those unable to protect themselves. He must prey in the day to avoid competition from more competent thieves in the nighttime. If you let him go, there is hardly a doubt he will nurse his injuries for a day or two before going back out on the streets, this time with something more than a shiv._

The vigilante leaned over him, moving her boot up to the soft flesh of his neck, pressing there as the precious moments of her time moved past. Still he did not make a move, staring up at her with those accusing eyes - those eyes of fear and spite. The man was not helping his case looking at her like that, as though he himself could not comprehend that his life was hanging in the balance - weighed on the morals that she was not convinced that she had. Slowly that expression twisted into one of disgust, losing the one barrier that had stilled her hand thus far. In a smooth movement, she tilted forward, pushing more of her weight onto his neck, and reached a hand up to her own neck, removing the scarf that was tied there.

The bite of terror claimed again his tongue as the whispering moans of his breath were forced from his throat. The siren loomed over him in these moments, hellfire licking her irises with unholy flame as she waited on baited breath for an end to the struggle that marked his last.

To him, she took on the appearance of a demonic avenger, summoned straight from the burning pits of shade, her hair dripping with shadow and expressionless face a mask made to mock human.

"What is your name?" she asked, voice hushed. The dark of her eyes burned him, saw straight past the appearance of flesh and the mockery of bone. Deeper, those eyes looked, until they saw right through him and into what could have been considered a soul - the remainder, the shell, that had once been.

"D-Dev-Devon Bla-Blake," he choked on the two simple words, the name that he had been saying his entire life. A conclusion came to her eyes. The man knew her plans. "M-Mercy!"

_Mercy be thy name._

Closer, she came to him, cloth taunt in her hands, spreading wide as though to embrace as she let the heavy stance of her foot to rise. The opportunity for breath he took, leaning upward and fighting with hands outstretched, clawing like a caged rat to rid himself of her. Calmly she slipped the scarf around his throat and pulled the choker tight again, watching the lights battle in his eyes and his words try to formulate on an unresponsive tongue. Sensation shivered up her spine as the struggling batting of his hands lessened, waning into feeble movements, a weak flailing as though he were falling into the sweetest of slumbers. The air went unpolluted by his foul breath, the world did not seem to notice his passing or the last twitching motion of his hands. An eyelash fluttered. All was still.

The black and white pattern of the cloth was dotted with new specks of brilliant crimson, drawing her eyes as she removed it fondly from the thickness of the man's neck and replaced it on her own. The woman took a steadying breath to rid herself of the poison of adrenaline that still consumed her mind. Down, the fighter was pushed, back into the constructed cage as E became E once more, body singing its low cry of pain. Feeling the leftovers, she slumped back against the wall, taking another calming breath that came as more of a hiss. Spots of agony exploded across her vision, tempting her into unconsciousness as she battled to remain awake. Giving a heaving cough, she forced the reality of her actions from her mind - as she always did, and sought to return to the outside world, the world that waited just down the length of the walls.  
The light pulled her toward it, the body forgotten below her as she moved, normally, simply, back into the land of the waking - into the land of the living.

The incident slipped from her mind as easily as water across bare skin, leaving her mind to be revisited later, to be agonized over in the comfort of her solitary state. Later in the sanctity of her apartment each detail would be stressed and committed to memory, each moment logged to ever be ingrained across the scarred surface of her self. As she returned to the cracking sidewalk and became again a part of the crowd, the women did not know that someone had seen. One other had seen her duck into the alleyway with a figure close behind and had witnessed a lone figure emerge. The importance of this event was lost as she made the journey home, nothing on her mind save for the supposed blandness of the day and its unremarkable splendor.

* * *

Though the first article set for publication was to appear in the newspaper the following day, E took time out of her afternoon to look farther into the company that she had been set up to work for as long as she remained in the city. The research that had founded her decision to sign up for such a job in the first place had not been extensive, a simple act of comparing recommendations and figures that she had collected in her previous years of experience. As a writer it was good to know who criticized what and who the greatest of allies were. Though E.G Harring did not seem to care much about the popular public opinion, E was still careful when it came to giving information freely to the general public, no matter where she was based out of or for who she was writing an article. The two past cities she had been based out of had been intricate when it came to their newspaper systems. Not only was it a matter of what class of people bought what paper, but it was also a matter of religion, race, nationality, and political taste. Reading up on the preferences of her audience would not sway her opinion, but it would sway her presentation. Such a thing was easier to focus on than what had occurred earlier in the day - an event still too fresh to ponder logically.

Sitting as she was on her couch with a steaming cup of fresh brewed tea nestled in her hold, the articles and information she had collected lay fanned out on the coffee table to her welcome eyes, picking out sentences and overt opinions that would help color her vision of the people she would be working under. The work was dull and monotonous, the perfect repetition to keep her thoughts under wraps and occupied for the time being. The sun was still high, she could see the light from its rays as it filtered in through her bedroom window. Time was moving at the pace of a legless dog and for the time being she both cursed and basked in it. As long as night refused to fall she could sit here motionless and pretend just for another moment that the world outside was suitable and people did not wish to cut each other open from gullet to pelvis like swine. Here in her apartment there was only her manuscript and her job - the reality of her life hidden behind the false surface that she wanted to focus on for the moment. There would be time enough to crush this reality later, she was sure.

On her eyes flitted across the clean pages of black text on a grainy white background, taking in stark words and the broad generalizations that all newspapers were found of. If E could but live in the world that these publications crafted, these places of stringent moral code where good was always clearly separated from bad, and good people still milled about in the common masses for all to see. The reality that the woman was subjected to was not as simple as the black and white places of articles. Here there was too much grey, too much room for the error that she knew she could not help but commit. The grey that was shaded with fear and with greed, lightened with empathy and sympathy that could hardly be shared. As her eyes sought to catch every divider between the two moral poles, a word came to her that stood out amongst the rest - Rorschach. Back her eyes swept until she was certain that she had read such a thing correctly. The sole vigilante amongst the street leeches that sought to add meaning to the meaninglessness of existence, to extinguish the fanned flames of crime. For some reason it brought a sweetened smile to her face. The opinion on law enforcement that she had so previously resigned herself to seemed to be validated in the columns of the paper, solidified into tangible feeling with each act that she read of the vigilante committing. Descriptions were fleeting and details on the actual endeavors of the man were fleeting, as most accounts on any of them were. Even before the Keene Act the articles written were filled with what could be considered fluff or hot air. Now, even those without rival such as this Rorschach were pushed out of the eye of the public and into the back of consciences. Tighter, her throat constricted, burning with unsortable emotion.

Pushing herself to a standing position, the newspaper clippings and the mug that she had poured full of her favored tea lay forgotten as she sought to pace the length of the apartment, tracing neat rows in the floor with her tread. Whenever the past rose unwelcome to the surface there was little that the woman could do to ease the tension. Either she made false promises, paced, or ended up shredding the indignation of a mask and killing a man that might have otherwise been spared. Had he not looked at her the way he had, with the accusation as though it was her that had turned him to a life of wallowing in the misery of the city - as though the filth had not the choice. E had met so many that shared those eyes, that had shared his fate. Longingly her fingers traced the fading droplets of crimson that now adorned her wardrobe. The first day had passed without incident - but the second? Every action in this world would bear a consequence, and she was thus sure that the fruits of the seeds she had planted would be nothing if not bitter.

The woman passed through the gaping maw of her bedroom doorway, settling herself in front of the bookcase as she traced the volumes of her leather journals with the smoldering force of her gaze. Selecting one of the slimmer additions, she flipped through the pages one by one, the logs of the names, of the places, of the dates and the descriptions and the deaths, the final moments - the knowledge she had accumulated beforehand. Each page was filled with these names, with these logs - all done in her precise penmanship that was nearly too small for anyone's eyes but her own to discern. Should anyone ever discover the truth of her, shall they stumble upon these records, the woman would be crossed completely by her own compulsion to document every occurrence in her life. Never would she wish to forget, to let a name slip her by, to allow herself to forget the details that held meaning even when they only sought to ignite the spiteful rage that never failed to consume her soul. Uncapping the pen that she fished from her pocket, E flipped each filled page until the next open spot stared at her with accusation.

_Devon Blake, male in mid-forties. Caucasian with dark eyes. A petty thief who preyed upon women in broad daylight with a slim knife about twice the length of the index finger. The man was heavier in build, wearing a thick overcoat that made it hard to guess a weight. Stood around 5'7" and right-handed. Broke wrist and fractured possibly two ribs. Strangled._

The last word was engraved into the journal, her hold on the pen quivering as she attempted to swallow the knot sitting at the back of the throat. The fluttering of his eyelashes as the shadows played across his cheeks, the glass of his eyes as they stared without accusation to the heavens that could not longer be seen. The sound of the silence as it settled where the breath had vacated, the feeling of death that rushed to fill its place. E could feel the brushing of a skeletal hand on her shoulder as she stood with the journal filled with names in her hands. The tears would not form in her eyes. Tears came from the heart and E was not sure she had a heart left to cry with.

The tears filled the waters and soon all would drown in the misery.

Misery was too thick in which to swim.

All would drown.

* * *

**Author's Note || To my everlasting sorrow, I do not own Watchmen or the concepts or characters thereof. I do, however, take credit for E and the situations and words contained in this story. I thank again for the patience those who read extend and hope that there is something that can be taken away from the reading. **

**Until next time, maintain thought.**


End file.
